


The Secrets of Public Speaking

by owlmoose



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natia Brosca helps Alistair prepare for the most important speech of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets of Public Speaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TourmalineQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineQueen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Jejune](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439995) by [TourmalineQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineQueen/pseuds/TourmalineQueen). 



> Inspired by "Dragon Age Drabblements", an alphabet fic series by TourmalineQueen, in particular "Bloviate" and "Jejune".

Natia perched on a windowsill in Arl Eamon's Denerim study, contemplating the view of rooftops and the blue sky -- it was a light color, pretty, a shade of blue that Leliana had assured her meant springtime was here. Or at least, she was trying to contemplate the view, but it was getting harder to ignore the noises coming from the other side of the room: the pacing, the muttering, the rustle of paper, the heavy sighs. Finally she heard a crash, and turned her head to see Alistair tangled with the empty birdcage. "What--" 

Alistair grabbed the pole and set the cage back upright, then out of the way. "Sorry." He lowered his eyes. "I got distracted." 

"Obviously." She leaned against the windowsill, hands crossed over her knees. "If you're going to pace, can you at least look where you're going? And be a little quieter about it? You're making me nervous." 

Alistair twisted his hand behind his back, and shot her an embarrassed grin. "Sorry. I suppose there's no need for both of us to be wrecks." 

"Why would you be a wreck?" She turned her head sideways to get a better look at him. Something was wrong, anyway: his face was pale, sweat beaded on his brow, and his hair was half-sticking up, probably because he'd been running his hands through it. "You'll do fine." 

"Oh, sure I will." He grunted and turned away, resting his hand on a nearby table. "I would rather fight a thousand archdemons right now than address the damned Landsmeet tomorrow." 

Natia half-laughed. "Better get used to it," she said, hopping down from the windowsill. "If you're gonna be king, this is the first speech of many." 

"Don't remind me," he groaned. "Why did I agree to this again?" 

"To end the civil war and unite Ferelden against the Blight. Which is what Grey Wardens do, remember?" She sat down again, in a chair near the window, feet dangling above the floor. "Well, if you want to practice in front of a friendly audience, I'm here, and all ears." 

"Yeah, all right." Alistair picked up a sheet of paper from the table. "Okay. Here goes." He cleared his throat three times, then began his recitation. "Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished nobles of the Landsmeet." He coughed, glanced at Natia, then looked back at the paper. "I, uh, I stand before you today. Not only as the only surviving son of King Maric. But as a Grey Warden, sworn to fight the Blight. I ask you to rememb- to _remind_ you of your duties to your homeland, this great land of Ferelden. I..." 

She'd heard enough. "Wait, stop." Alistair looked up from the sheet, eyes wide. "Alistair, who wrote that speech?" 

"Arl Eamon, who else?" 

She leaned back, resting the top of her head against the chair's wooden crossbar. "Figures," she muttered. "Yeah, no, that won't do at all." 

Alistair sighed, his face drooping, the paper sliding out of his hands and floating to the floor. "See, I told you. It's no use. You should be the one giving the speeches, not me." 

Natia raised an eyebrow. "Me?" 

He nodded vigorously. "You're a natural. When you got up before the Assembly and convinced them to back Bhelen for king, you were so impassioned, so perfect. You held every eye and every ear." He looked up at her, and his eyes were shining: with pride, with admiration and affection, and Natia's breath caught in surprise. Was that really how he had seen her? "If you gave a speech like that to the Landsmeet, I know we would win." 

"It's nice to know you were so confident." His eye widened, and she shrugged. "Believe me, I was terrified that day. Grey Warden or not, I'm still a duster to them. I had no idea if they would listen. All I knew was that I had to try, and that I couldn't let them see how nervous I was." 

"Well, it worked." Alistair put his hands on the table behind him, leaning back. "How'd you pull it off?" 

"Besides lots of bluffing?" She grinned, and he smiled back. "Well, I spoke from the heart. I really did believe that Bhelen was the right choice for Orzammar. Not the perfect choice, maybe, but the best hope for a better future." She hopped down from the chair and took his hand, letting his fingers lightly rest within hers. "I can't give a speech like that about Ferelden. It's not my home. I can't speak to the hopes and fears of the nobles the way you can, because you've lived them. You understand them." 

Alistair squeezed her hand, then pulled away. "But I'm not a noble." 

She shrugged again. "And neither am I. Speak with enough conviction, and that won't matter. That's the hunch I played, and it worked for me. It'll work for you, too. But you have to believe, Alistair." She tapped her finger against his chest. "You have to believe that you are the best choice to lead Ferelden against the Blight." 

He took a deep, sharp breath, shoulders rising, shaking his head. "I-- I can't--" 

"Well, best of the available options." She put her fists on her hips and tilted her head to the side. "Are you a better choice than Loghain?" 

Alistair snorted, face twisting into a mask of anger. "Of course!" 

"And Anora?" 

He paused, and she held her breath. The old Alistair, the wisecracker she'd first met at Ostagar, the bundle of nerves who'd admitted his parentage outside Redcliffe, would have said no. But he'd changed over the months that followed. He'd faced down demons, dragons, darkspawn horrors, his own disappointments. He was becoming a leader already. Natia knew he was more than a match for any noble in Denerim. But did he know that? 

Alistair's anger faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. He pursed his lips together, then let out his breath in a sharp puff of air. "Yes. She's too close to her father, too ambitious. I can't trust her, and the Landsmeet shouldn't either." 

"Well. Then there you go." Natia placed her hands on his chest, and he covered them with one of his own. "You've got this. I promise." 

He gathered her hands together and brushed his lips across her fingertips. "If you believe in me, how can I not do likewise?" 

"That's the spirit." She lifted herself up on tiptoe and kissed him. "Now write your own speech, and once that's done, there's more where that came from." 

Alistair finally smiled. "Now that's a bargain I can take," he murmured, leaning down for another kiss. 

She pulled back with a grin. "Speech first. Reward later." 

He chuckled and lightly stroked her cheek. "Yes, ma'am." He picked the paper up from the floor, sat down at the nearest desk, and picked up a quill. Soon he was absorbed in writing, and Natia settled back into the windowsill to enjoy the view in peace and prepare herself for the challenge to come. 


End file.
